Voices of Thedas
by OrielleD
Summary: A series of character studies, all told in first-person perspective. They will take place across different points of time in game canon spanning from Dragon Age: Origins to hundreds of years following Inquisition; most will be speculative and/or AU. I will take requests.
1. Little Fox

"**Little Fox"**

Renata Demitridis, aged 17

Andoral's Reach, Nation of Mages

9:58 Dragon

* * *

I always wanted my father's ears. Whenever I'd ask for them, he'd just smile, sadly, and tell me they were never something I could have, and were never something I should want. I never understood that, not until I was older, and realized that outside of the nation where we lived, my father's beautiful ears—in fact, everything about him—were a fast road to the underclass. Later, I would find out that outside our borders, the same road existed with magic.

I don't remember much of my mother. I know that she wasn't beautiful, but I do remember her voice. It was sweet, and kind. I remember that she used it; she was important, because she used it. I must have been about eight or nine when I saw her last. One day she left—to go use her voice somewhere, I think. The night before she and Adda had a terrible row. I don't remember what she said, but I do remember the words _duty, responsibility, justice._ I don't remember much else.

So, one day, she left Andoral's Reach on a fine horse, with a small contingent of battlemages. She never came back. This was perhaps a day or two after an attack. They came so often, when I was young, but I never saw them until that one. They did happen often enough that I wasn't allowed to play alone with my friends. They happened often enough that, even at eight, I felt as if my life was spent waiting only for the next attack to come.

Please understand this isn't to say that life at the Reach was ever bad, just…uncertain. Having such an uncertain life as an eight- or nine-year-old is no way to live. That being said, that attack was the first time I ever saw Adda use his markings. Maker, I thought they were beautiful, and it wasn't until then that I realized they were dangerous, to boot. I remember telling him I wanted them, too, and he only shook his head and said, "No, no. You don't want these." I asked him why, and he told me that I was still a little too young to know, and that soon enough, he would tell me everything. He told me that if something should ever happen to him, he'd made sure to put the story of his life—and Mamae's, too—in a book.

My father was illiterate for most of his life. That never ceases to amaze me, given his huge vocabulary and incredible intellect, and I learned that Mamae taught him how to read, and then to write. She taught us, too—well, Leto, mostly—and Adda taught me the rest, after she disappeared.

I digress. The night of the attack was the first time I saw his markings come to life, to catch on fire. He danced, and men fell around him, and there was blood. I was too young to understand, but later I would look back and realize, with no small amount of fear, that he was reaching into their chests and ripping out their hearts. He had a sword, but he rarely used it. It was as big as he was, and I'd seen him wield it in the practice yard, but he always said that the other way was faster, easier to utilize in close-quarters combat. He taught me how to wield my weapons, too: little daggers, for his 'little fox'. That was what he called me; I never understood why, not until I found out that it had been a name for my mother.

They called her Foxface, and from what I remember, the name was accurate. She wasn't beautiful, but her voice and her heart were beautiful. I know Adda thought she was beautiful. I do remember that she'd look at me and say she was glad that I looked not like her, but like her mother. I look nothing like my father, though Leto is his spitting image, just…human. All of us half-elves are human, and Adda says that it's a blessing, though I only ever wanted his ears. They were so beautiful. _He _was so beautiful. He didn't know it, or perhaps he didn't care. And I—well, I look just like my grandmother, red-haired and blue-eyed and nothing at all like my mother, the woman they called Foxface. I have her name, too: Renata.

Grandmamae Cora said that she was a slave, and my grandfather's lover. My father says the same, and always added that their love was strong, but it hurt a lot of people and ruined a lot of lives, including Mamae's. He told me that I should learn from it, and always remember to love openly but to keep in mind the consequences of my decisions. My grandfather refused to choose between his duty and his love, and we all paid the price.

Mamae and Adda had a row. They didn't fight often, but when they did, I felt as if my entire world might fall apart. And then she left, and never came back, and left me, and Leto, and Adda alone. We couldn't bury her. He was so sad.

Now that I'm older, I think that maybe some days he thought about ending his life and joining her, but he never did. He knew, maybe, that we would be lost without him, especially after Leto showed his magic. I don't have any…well, not proper magic. Adda says that hearing spirits is not something a lot of people know how to do, not people without magic, anyway. Merrill, one of our Keepers, says that it's what the Chantry calls 'hedge magic': abilities outside true magic, but sometimes powerful and always dangerous.

I can't help it. I listen to them, and I find out what they want. If it's easy and ethical, I'll give it to them, and occasionally they give me something in return. There are good ones—mostly, they're good ones—but there are some very, very bad ones, too. Well, I don't think they're bad, per se, or evil. But they are lawless, visceral, and dangerous. They don't play by the rules of the Real and don't care for them. I must tread carefully around them, think of them as wild animals, and treat them with caution and respect. It's just in their nature to hurt, and best to stay away, and I do.

Adda was so sad when he found out Leto had magic. I don't think he ever told Leto that, and it wasn't until later—much later—that I found out his experience, the terrible things he and Mamae had suffered at the hands of mages. I marvel that he never seemed to let that get in the way. He taught us that what we had was both gift and curse; it was a great responsibility to wield magic, and only to be used when no other way would do. He taught us the strength of heart we would need to keep it. Not all of the children we grew up with were so lucky; we watched ourselves closely for any signs of corruption. They didn't all make it.

We knew the cost of relaxing our vigilance. It was either watch our own or slip into the ways of the people around us.

Mamae chose the middle path. The people that fought against us—the people who tried to kill us—treat their mages like slaves, like walking bombs, like animals. They don't even treat them like something you'd find useful, like a pack horse. The Qunari are even worse; they bind their mages, sew closed their mouths, torture and kill the ones who will not comply.

In the north, where Mamae and Adda come from, mages rule everything and every one. I would know; my grandfather was their leader for a time, and he held the power of life and death in his hands. In Tevinter, they don't recognize their terrible gift, and they don't care. All they care about is power, in whatever form they can get it: forbidden magic, ugly things, murder, blood. Grandmamae's son was killed that way, and it was what made Mamae run away. I don't blame her; they made Mamae and Adda into slaves. That was all they had in common, in the beginning, but they grew to love each other so deeply. Even at eight I could tell that much.

They loved us even more. Mamae would sing to me at night, she'd read to me, she'd snuggle me and tell me I was loved, so loved, and that she wanted me. She wanted me, like nothing in the world, to grow up and be happy, and healthy, and most of all…free. She wanted to give me the world she'd never had. To create a place where we could always be free. She told me that was why we were fighting: so that Leto and I and all the other mage children being born in the Reach could have the freedom that Mamae and Adda never had. I believed in her so much that I still fight for it every day.

I suppose I could have left, but we're so close. There are treaties being drafted. The Qunari—the worst mage-slavers of them all—tried to take our piece of land, and didn't make it very far. Refugees from the old countries, the old Chantry, started streaming in. There were farmers, smiths, workers of all kinds and colors, even a few refugee kossith that call themselves Tal-Vashoth. They heard that the Nation of Mages—we still don't have a name, though some Resolutionists have stupidly suggested New Tevinter—were strong enough to defend them all. Those who weren't afraid of us came, first in trickles, then in droves. The Seekers and the Chantry no longer have the kind of numbers it would take to fight both us and the Qunari, and I think maybe they're beginning to realize that the kind of balance my mother advocated so strongly for, the kind she died for, is something that we continue to engender every day.

Andoral's Reach is home to several philosophers, who we have named Keepers in the tradition of the Dalish. Together, they dreamed up a doctrine they call _vir ethrevas_: 'the way of safe freedom'. Each of us swears to walk in balance all our days, and we've created a system in which each citizen is held to their oath. No one of us can do something at the expense of the many; no one of us can claim to speak for the many. We treat our non-mages with respect, and the love and care they deserve. And, Maker help us, we will never become Tevinter. We will never collar our own, we will never keep slaves. We have the path of _vir ethrevas_, and I fight for it. I fight for it, my spirits fight for it, my brother fights for it, my father fights for it.

My name is Renata Demitridis. I am seventeen years old, and my friends and family call me 'the little fox'.


	2. Knight Errant

**"Knight Errant"**

Leander Coté, aged 34

Minrathous, Tevinter Remnant

19:59 Modern

* * *

Of all the places the OKT could send me at a time like this, Minrathous has got to be the worst of it.

'See the world,' they said. 'Become a templar,' they said. Bollocks. In a world where secular thought is increasingly becoming the norm, I can't believe I got suckered into joining what most of my friends believe is the most backwards governmental department in existence.

It could be worse, I suppose. The Order of Knights Templar dropped the more official traditions back in the Carbon Age, and while we still deal with much the same thing as we always have, OKT agents in my day and age don't have to wear skirts and armor. No, none of that bullshit from me, and the Prime Minister in the Union of Lower Countries brought us back into the world of the living with the OKT Modernization Act. The only people who seem to have the right idea of our sphere of influence, however, are the ones who don't watch terrible mirror dramas that seem to be ubiquitous.

I get out of my conveyance and stride into the bustling music venue where I'm told I can find my contacts. "Colwyn and Branwen Michaelmas," my boss said, back when I was still in the lower half. "Couple of kids on the north side." Then she shoved me unceremoniously out the door and I took a mag-lyrium train to the central garage, where I picked up the fastest horseless I had clearance for and drove almost three hundred leagues to the Tevinter Remnant.

Maker, how I hate working on the Northside. Well, at least the treaties with Par Vollen are still intact, and I don't have to worry about Minrathous turning into a war zone…again. I thank Andraste for small favors.

The girl at the door, a scrabbly looking sort with the sides of her head shaved into a mohawk, takes my ticket and looks at me as if I'm wearing a lyrium brand on my forehead. I roll my eyes at her; she rolls her eyes at me. And while I'm not wearing any protective measures as obvious as lyrium branding, I'm quite well defended despite being unarmored.

"I'm looking for two siblings," I say to her. "By name of Colwyn and Branwen."

The girl raises an eyebrow. "Who's asking?" she says, supremely rudely. Kids these days. I roll my eyes again. Really?

"My name is Leander," I say. "My business is my own, but trust me when I tell you I don't mean your buddies any harm."

She clucks disapprovingly and then motions at a burly bouncer type on her left. "They're on right now, but you can talk to them after. Neil will show you backstage."

I thank the Maker I don't have to flash my badge around, especially in a place like this. Then again, I'm hoping that not everything about me screams OKT, because on this job, that could be a liability.

Neil the bouncer—seriously, how did a goon get a librarian's name? —shows me around the front end, and I take a pause to listen to the music. It's turned from a dull roar to a full assault on my ears. The music is loud, the crowd is louder, and I pause the guy in his tracks to get an idea of whom I'm dealing with.

There are two on stage, and they can't be older than twenty. Maker, I remember those days. Back when I still had a soul and the daily grind that is working for the OKT still meant something to me. When I was twenty, I thought I could still make a difference and was sure that the whole of Thedas was my proverbial oyster.

The family resemblance between the two is undeniable, and they could be twins if one of them wasn't an elf. Huh. Don't see many full-blooded elves around Thedas, anymore, even in the north. Here, they mostly stick to their Enclaves: elite sanctuaries in which the pure blood is held to a premium. Especially so for the elves in the Remnant, who have gone from slave class to an elitist hegemony that suffers more from a lack of genetic diversity than a lack of funds.

The boy is the human, and he's maybe just a smidge younger than his sister. They're both of the Northern coloration that's so common here: dark hair, olive skin. They both have the moss-green eyes that are common in the elven race and are a good indicator of an elf or two in the line of a person of the human persuasion.

I force myself to pay attention to the music. They're not quite singing, not quite talking, and a third person behind them is spinning background tracking on two turntables in the background. Every so often the girl pulls a viola from the stand next to her and plays it; it's hooked into a distortion pedal and I have to say the effect is pretty cool. Then I realize that the only people who say that word anymore are what the kids call 'squares'. It would be not cool of me at all to say 'cool' in anything less than ironic fashion.

Of the things their lyrics could be about though, what I'm not expecting is the subject of race relations, at least from this point of view. Interesting. I can't remember the lyrics exactly, but a lot of it has to do with seclusion, denial, and who the fuck cares if my goddamned ears disappear, I'll fuck who I want, thank you very much.

The crowd, who I notice are fairly well distributed among race lines, cheer. I look closely: humans and elves seem to be in fairly even attendance. I even see a few kossith in the ranks, which makes more sense here than in the Lower Countries. Kossith with no love for the Qun made their ways here as early as the Dragon Age and have been happily procreating ever since. It's too bad that they're genetically incompatible with humans and elves both. I have heard in some advances in biohacking that may allow genetic traits of one parent to be sown in another. It was pioneered by the elves, of course; they're desperate to preserve their features without succumbing to the diseases years of inbreeding have slowly forced upon them.

The angry (or should I say fervent? I'm not sure) lyrics cease, and the two step off stage, leaving the deck crew to set up for the next band in the set. Neil the bouncer pokes me, points toward the backstage door. I follow.

The two—I still don't know which is which, damn their mother and her apparent love for unisex names—are sitting down on one of the couches, wiping sweat off with towels and drinking enough water to drown a horse.

"Hi," the girl says. "You must be the OKT bloke we were told about."

"Leander," I say, and extend a hand. She's happy to offer hers, but her brother is a little more reluctant. From what I can tell, the girl's going to be the talker of the two.

"I'm Branwen," she says, "and this is Colwyn."

"Charmed," says Colwyn, though he looks anything but. He turns to his sister and jabbers at her in rapid Elvish, and she says something back. I make a mental note; Reconstructed Elvish is less a complete language and more of a hybrid of the words that survived the ancient purges and high Arcanum from the old Imperium. Insofar as I know, the fact that an elf-blooded human would know it is nearly tantamount to high treason in the Enclave.

"So," Branwen says, as she sits back on the sofa and polishes off her water bottle. "What did you think of the music?"

"Didn't have a chance to hear much," I confess. "A lot of the lyrics were enlightening."

"You can say that again," Colwyn says, and Branwen treats me to a smile.

"What my surly brother means to say is that he doesn't generally expect humans to understand what we're talking about."

I beg to differ, silently: I know of at least three elves in my bloodline, though in the Lower Countries there is almost no stigma to intermarriage. The Remnant has a long and bloody history of human-on-elf violence stretching back to the Imperial slave trade, and the stench lingers; mixed-race coupling is still very much taboo here in the North.

"I didn't get a chance to see the band name," he said. "You finished before I had a chance to look."

Branwen laughs. "Well," she explains, "it's a bit ironic, really."

"Hit me," I say, determined to prove that my status as an OKT agent in his early thirties isn't necessarily doomed to be a square.

"We're the Blunt Knives," she says.

I shake my head; no, the irony isn't lost on me. Well played, Michaelmas kids. Well played.

"So," she says, after we listen to the next band for a couple of minutes. "What can we do for you?"

"Well, I was told you might be able to help me on a bit of a field job I have coming up," I say. The dossiers say that they are talented and well-vetted mages, even if Branwen's abilities border on hedge magic and true apostasy, rather than trained talent.

"Oh," she says. Her Remnant lilt is a little more pronounced now that her elocution isn't tied to a spun beat. "Sounds like fun! What have you got for us this time?"

"Standard fare," I say. "A Circle-trained genius decided to start dabbling in necromancy—"

Colwyn makes a face, and he looks like I feel. We might have grown with the times, even relaxing our vigilance on hedge magic, but necromancy remains a fast-track to Very Bad Things. Thus, outside of very controlled circumstances, it remains highly illegal. "This have anything to do with the serial murders we keep hearing about in the enclave?"

"I think so, yes."

"So not only do you need a couple of mages, you need easy access to the Enclave," says Branwen, with a smirk. "We can take care of the first, but I'm afraid we may have burned some bridges with them, what with our artistic subject matter."

"I've got access to the Enclave," I say, "but I could use translators."

"That much we can do," says Colwyn. Branwen gets up, hands me a card.

"Give us a call tomorrow?" she asks. I nod. "Not too early, though. We've got one more set in an hour, then breakdown."

I have Neil escort me from the backstage area and head back to my room at the Slaughtered Archon for a night's rest. In the morning I wake early, grab breakfast from a cheap spread laid out in the tavern, then take a nap. Maker, I hadn't even realized how tired I was, but when I wake from my nap in the early afternoon, I feel like a new man.

I freshen up and head to the area of town in which the Michaelmas twins live. I knock on the door, and Branwen answers it, beaming.

"Avanna," she says, an old Arcanum word that survived the Reavings. "Thanks for giving us time to sleep in." She asks me if I'd like a cup of java or tea, and I refuse both. "Suit yourself," she says, "but I do my best work when I'm caffeinated." Not long after, Colwyn stumbles out of his room, looking less like a human and more like a reanimated corpse. He perks up after a strong cup of java, and cooks a small meal for the three of us. We make small talk all the while, and when we're done he finally gets serious.

"I know we didn't have a lot of time to talk last night," he says. "If you wouldn't mind, I'd like a proper briefing." I note his use of jargon. While I don't believe Branwen has ever been a freelancer proper, I know Colwyn has been tapped both by OKT and Magus Iniciae. Both agencies wanted his considerable talents, but he refused both, preferring to return home to Minrathous and take care of his family. His request was granted, provided he remain on retainer for local OKT or MI contracts, and has proven a loyal ally ever since.

"As I said before," I say, "this is a fairly simple case. I'd be on it by myself, but Control seemed to think you'd be a worthwhile asset."

"And that's because…?"

"You and your sister have ties to the Enclave, and can help me avoid an embarrassing faux pas." I let the obvious go unsaid: I may be possessed of a few elven traits, but Enclave born I am not, and they barely trust their own.

"…and?" Damnit. He knows, or at least suspects, the other reason. Damned empaths!

"…and we have reason to believe our perpetrator is a former colleague of yours from the Circle." That seems to surprise him, and I thank the Maker he's an empathy and not a true Listener.

He laughs. "Marcus, wasn't it." It's a statement, not a question. I nod. "Self-aggrandizing prick. He would have been right at home in the old Imperium. We had a bit of a rivalry back in Dairsmuid."

"Control figured you knew him," I say.

"Oh, I knew him all right, and the only talents I seem to remember him having were in the necromantic arts. I do recall saying as much before his Harrowing." He frowns. "I take it he was summoned home by the Enclave?"

"Apt assessment." Sovereignty has its issues, lack of proper jurisdiction over recalled mages being one of the more obvious—and inconvenient—ones. However, few elven Enclave mages prove to be as much trouble as Marcus has. I get the feeling he might never have passed his Harrowing, if he'd ever had a chance to endure it.

Colwyn nods. "Well, you have my staff, if you want it. Bran, want in?"

I'd almost forgotten she was there. Maker, she's good. "Don't ask me, brother. I'm just the illusionist."

"You're not Circle-trained," I say, "but that could very well end up being the trick up our sleeve."

Bran nods, shrugs, and looks at her brother. "Cole?"

He nods. "I think we could use her."

"I trust you," I say.

"Well then," Cole says. "Let's go nail the bastard."


End file.
